


starts when you're around

by staraflur



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-21
Updated: 2009-11-21
Packaged: 2017-10-03 11:34:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staraflur/pseuds/staraflur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>for the kink meme prompt <i>Arthur is a bored, high-profile executive; Merlin runs a company (http://www.guardian.co.uk/artanddesign/2005/sep/20/art) which offers "executive abductions" for charge. Arthur hires Merlin to kidnap him, and once the job is over, he can't keep away. Sexytiems involving bondage and dirty talk ensue.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	starts when you're around

**Author's Note:**

> For Bina on a bad week

Arthur arranges it one night while he's drunk -- one of those astoundingly intoxicated nights he's always surprised he survived. When he checks his bank and credit card statements the next day, which he always does at 3:00 PM, he immediately notices the 2000 pound transaction among the fleet of middling charges from all the tabs they'd run. Impressive for a Wednesday night, really.

The company name is so vague that it's immediately suspicious: Executive Consulting and Services. He groans, sure he lost a card last night, and now he's going to have to deal with the bank and the charge companies to straighten the whole thing out.

He looks in his wallet, though, and the card's still there. Can they do that? He doesn't even know, so he decides to investigate himself, first.

His call is answered by an imperious woman, really a little too proud for a secretary, who listens to his demands and threats before she transfers him without explanation to a man with a old-sounding voice. All he'll say is that his name is Gaius Browhigh and that he's fairly sure Arthur himself called them last night and charged the transaction to the AmEx in question.

Arthur googles the name quickly, and the first thing that comes up is [a _Guardian_ article](http://www.guardian.co.uk/artanddesign/2005/sep/20/art) about "executive kidnapping services," some sort of clap trap about a company that charges people with money to give them a bit of a fake, cheap thrill. It doesn't give a name, though.

"This is absolute rubbish," he says into the phone. "How on earth could someone be scared if they _hired_ you?"

"Oh I assure you, Mr. Pendragon, we're quite good at what we do."

"I'm sure. How did you even get my number? I could have you reported, I'm on the no call register."

"Mr. Pendragon," Browhigh says. "We operate on referrals only. _We_ don't call _anyone_."

\----

In the end he doesn't cancel it, because Browhigh makes it clear a refund isn't going to be easy to "process," which is some grade A bullshit if Arthur's ever heard any. But he doesn't make too big a deal of it -- on some level, he acknowledges, he's intrigued, and he must've had good reason for doing it at the time.

But then a week passes, and another, and it isn't small change but it isn't _too_ much money, and works gets busy so it slips to the back of his mind and then he forgets it altogether.

\----

Merlin's antsy already, jittery from too much coffee because he hadn't slept the night before. He's supposed to be on vacation right now, but someone's ill and all of a sudden he's got to cover. And make it _good_, Gaius said, this one's a skeptic already.

Normally he likes these sort of jobs, because these ones are fun -- the men are always swaggering and slinging testosterone and bravado until they can't move -- Merlin's very good at that part, the ropes and restraints and even if one ever did happen to get loose he's got a little something extra on his side -- and then they break almost instantly, get all pale and hyperventilate and sometimes they even cry. They'll offer him money to let them go, more than the contract's worth, and sometimes at that point he'll pretend he doesn't know what they're talking about, and even though they _know_, it's already been acknowledged, that this is just what they paid for, they tend to forget at that point. Occasionally they threaten to sue once they regain control, but so far none of them have wanted to file against the company they paid to kidnap them.

Morgana's got the file and the picture: as expected, she explains that he works at a fancy firm downtown and he walks around the block a few times every evening before he heads to his car. They're not interested in where he goes next.

He doesn't have time to look at the picture because he realizes he hasn't read the details of what they're actually doing, an abnormally thick sheaf of papers and diagrams that all together mean Gaius is taking this one as a point of personal pride.

He's about to get to the details of what it is exactly that he's supposed to do, or at least the person he's replacing, when Morgana says, "That's him," and swerves the bulky dark van with the finesse of a trained driver in a race car. The man -- Arthur Pendragon -- is startled at the noise but he isn't visibly frightened, and Merlin has a moment to appreciate his composure before it's his cue to swing open the door.

"Arthur Pendragon?" he says. The man doesn't actually confirm it but he looks up and that's enough to knock Merlin's breath out for a moment because _Jesus Christ_ and before the guy's ridiculous blue eyes can blow the whole thing Morgana rounds behind him and presses one of their very convincing fake guns into his back.

\----

The van's a little cliche, to be sure, but they don't actually charge enough to get fancy helicopters or anything, and that would be too conspicuous either way, so the the van it is, though this one comes with a retrofit spindly metal chair and a variety of accessories. It's distinctly uncomfortable, Merlin remembers from the time he'd bound himself in it just to know how it felt from the other side.

Pendragon eyes Morgana and then allows Merlin to bind him with zip ties around his ankles and straightforward handcuffs trapping his wrists behind his back, old-fashioned and trope but psychologically effective.

He's calm the whole time, studying all of Merlin's actions; Merlin makes them all the more showily efficient and deft.

When he pulls the last one tight and backs up, stands, Pendragon's eyes follow him and hold, steady, on his face.

"I don't know what you want out of me, but I think you're going to be disappoint -- _wait_ \-- this is that _thing_, isn't it? With that crazy old man. Gaius? I'm right, aren't I?"

Merlin's handled this dozens of times, the moment when the man with too much money and no thrills tries for courage but then he strains too hard against the bonds, they bite into his skin and he stops. So Merlin's good at showing nothing and ignoring the brief taunts.

Arthur Pendragon doesn't. He grins like this is all great entertainment, which is typical, he sweeps his gaze around the interior and judges (also typical), and he flexes against the bonds and he finds them definitely _not_ lacking. Kind of like Merlin's sizing up his muscles as he watches, finding them sufficient himself. His eyebrows raise like he's impressed despite himself and then says, "So this is what I paid for, huh? I think I was expecting more. I was beyond wasted at the time, so I don't really _remember_, but I'm quite sure I was looking to be impressed. Frightened, even."

And okay, this happens sometimes, some guy trying to talk himself through it, focus on the sound of his own voice so he doesn't lose it. Merlin's always ignored them, let them talk themselves out and let the doubt settle in before he interjects. Apparently he's having an unprofessional night, though.

"From what I understand, the paying _is_ the idea, but I don't think my employer considers it done yet. Far from, in fact." He knits his fingers behind his head, because the more casual he is the worse it always makes everything for the client.

"Oh, come on," Pendragon argues. "Really, after all that guy's talk, this is _it_?"

"Why?" Merlin snaps. "What do you want?" He has to force himself not to wince, because he's practically just _given_ it away, and in what, thirty seconds?

Pendragon smirks and somehow manages to settle into the chair, looking like he's _lounging_. Merlin doesn't even notice they're moving -- has totally forgotten about Morgana -- until the inertia from a particularly sharp turn pushes Arthur to one side in the chair. It's definitely uncomfortable, but he doesn't react.

Great, Merlin reflects, because supposed-to-be-a-day-off or no, this is still his _job_ and he's totally bollocksed it up. Time to snap back to it.

"Okay," he says, stepping in closer, because even though he's generally skinnier than these guys, and much more than Arthur, he's not absolute pants at menacing. "What is it you want? We've got a bit of everything: the dark rooms, the snakes and tarantulas, the videotapes of you picking your nose while you think you're safe at home." Actually, that's not half of what they can do, but the more extreme ones tend to actually damage his credibility.

Arthur's amused smirk doesn't alter in the slightest, but he does keep an eye on Merlin's approach, and on Merlin's fingers as he ticks off the options. Then it's back up to his face -- his mouth, he realizes -- and when Arthur's tongue slips out to wet his lips, Merlin both thinks _oh, buggerfuck_ and _this, I can use_. It's dangerous, he knows, and it's further than he's ever actually gone, but right now it's absolutely paramount that he sees in Arthur's very eyes the moment of surrender.

So he crowds in further, struggling with a smirk of his own as he watches Arthur's eyes flicker, his pupils dilate. He slides one leg between Arthur's, tied with one foot flush with each of the forelegs of the chair and his legs open, and moves it slowly forward until his knee hits the seat. He doesn't stop there, though, just lifts it up so can plant his knee right in the middle of the vee of Arthur's legs -- and no, there isn't much room to begin with.

It's only because he's so used to reading the small signs that he notices the newly rigid set to Arthur's shoulders. He pushes down the flare of triumph because it couldn't be that easy, and he's right: Arthur stares back at him looking for all the world like this is absolutely normal.

"I'm not sure these are quite tight enough," Merlin decides, though he's always quite thorough with the cuffs. Instead of moving around the chair like he had before, he places one bracing arm on Pendragon's chest and leans right over him, determinedly not noticing the hard sculpted pressure of Arthur's body against him in favor of hearing the change in Arthur's breath, hitching against his ear.

He can't quite reach without overbalancing, so he has to arch his fingers into Arthur's chest a little bit, dig them in just enough to give him a bit of hold. And to feel Arthur's heart rate speed up.

The dated cuffs are the sort people expect, an serrated curve with prominent angles for the lock to catch on, more like toys than the real, modern thing. They're already snug, so he pushes them one loud click further. He runs a finger around Arthur's wrist to make sure the skin isn't caught anywhere, and Arthur's chest jerks under his hand.

"Nope, don't think you'll be getting out of those tonight," he affirms, and leverages himself against Arthur one more time to stand up. He slides his knee off the chair but doesn't move back.

"You knew that already," Arthur accuses, narrowing his eyes.

"Never hurts to double check. Besides, it wouldn't look good if someone got out."

"You'd have to break your hand to get out of these," Arthur says, flat and unimpressed by his logic.

"Hmm," Merlin says, not agreeing. "I can."

"You -- what?" Arthur says, and he's surprised but it's nothing like what Merlin wants. "You can?" He looks down at Merlin's hand, still resting lightly on him, and then scoffs.

"I can do a lot of things you can't," Merlin says, which is true but also a taunt. "For instance, right now I can move my arms." He demonstrates, flattening his palm and sliding it hard up to Arthur's shoulder and then down one arm in a deliberate display, stopping at the elbow and bringing it to rest on the back of the chair, right on the top edge that cuts awkwardly, uncomfortably, at Arthur's shoulder blades.

"So?" Arthur asks. His voice his a little hoarse but his gaze is challenging, defiant, so Merlin continues because he knows it's just a matter of time.

"Both of them, even," he says, ignoring Arthur's reply and leaning forward a little bit, moving his other hand into the space between the seat of the chair and the arm, wrapping his fingers around the edge. Of course, this won't work unless he shifts the other arm, too, so it's pressed into Arthur's back along the top of the chair. It's too bad, he thinks, that there's no room between the outsides of Arthur's legs and the chair, because he really wants to move in further, bend his leg so his knee can glide in the space and his hips --

But he can't. So it doesn't matter.

"That doesn't seem -- so great to me," Arthur contends, but he has to break halfway through to swallow hard and gulp in a breath.

"Really? Does that mean you're used to this?" Merlin asks. "You just sit there and let everyone else do all the work? You don't..." He leans in further, and there's absolutely nothing to do with his legs except press one knee between Arthur's thighs like before, only this time he lets it slip up until it's right at the juncture, Arthur's body hot all around him and his hips thrusting reflexively upwards, at him. Any more and he'd be actually climbing on top of the man, which for all that his balls are actually starting to ache and that he imagines it would be great, great fun, is _not_ the purpose of this exercise.

He does, though, let himself curl the hand at Arthur's back inwards until the fingers are on his body, three frustrated by his shirt but the thumb and forefinger above it, against the hot skin of Arthur's neck. He digs the nail on his thumb in a little, enough to leave a white trail up the flushed skin when he runs it up the side into Arthur's hair. The blood rushes back in immediately, and Arthur swallow again, eyelids fluttering.

Merlin tangles his hand in Arthur's hair and pulls back, angling his head up just enough that their faces are lined up perfectly, Arthur's slightly parted lips and Merlin's face crooked with his asymmetrical stance.

Another tight breath sounds, and Merlin realizes it's his own just as he starts moving in, just as he sees Arthur's eyelids close in anticipation.

And right fucking _there_, that's it, the change in Arthur's gaze from all the prior condescension and amusement to what Merlin was working for: surrender. Merlin knows he's in charge now.

With it comes the quelling realization of what he'd been about to _do_, what he'd already done, to gain that control. He stumbles back, catches his foot on the chair and falls hard against the padded metal side, breath coming fast and stomach roiling. He feels queasy, panicked.

"What--" Arthur begins.

"Stop the car, Morgana," Merlin says, voice strangled, and "Fucking stop right _now_!" when she starts to protest.

He expressly does not look at Arthur as he fiddles with the ties to make it look like he's actually undoing them when really he's just fucking snapping them off because he can't remember where the scissors are, and reaches around to do the same with the cuffs -- risky, it's not exactly believable that he can undo them without watching, and Arthur will probably wonder where he produced the key from. Before Arthur can say anything, and hoping Arthur won't, Merlin pulls him up and hustles him out the back.

Arthur stands on the pavement, looking bewildered and indignant and staring at him. For some reason Merlin hops down next to him, twisting his hands together because in place of all the flood of adrenaline and arousal he's now feeling embarrassed and uncomfortable.

"Right, well... You were right of course," he says, like that was news to Arthur or something. "I'll uh... Make sure Gaius gives you your money back."

"I was under the impression he doesn't do that."

"No, well... Usually not. But you know, we gave it up so uh... He'll make an exception."

Arthur opens his mouth again, but Merlin slams the rear doors shut and practically runs to the passenger side, jerking it open and ordering Morgana to "get us the fuck out of here." He doesn't even know where they are.

And he doesn't realize until later that in his haste he'd left one round of the cuffs embracing Arthur's wrist.

\----

Gaius isn't even angry, not really, proving the old maxim that in some situations, the disappointment is worse. He processed the refund immediately, though, and then grants Merlin his vacation. But Merlin doesn't feel much like the shore any longer, so he just skulks around the city, expecting for the first two days to get ambushed by a process server or something.

But it doesn't happen, so he relaxes back into his usual routine, and by the time he comes back one night and finds Arthur Pendragon in his apartment he's stopped anticipating it altogether.

\-----

Arthur is annoyed when he first gets shoved out of the van like he'd violated the Lady Merlin's virgin integrity or something, very annoyed by the time the car he calls finally finds him, and angry when he grabs the door handle and realizes the idiot hasn't even removed the cuffs properly and they're still dangling from his right arm. He chews on the ire for a while, pointedly not acknowledging his fairly complete loss of control. He focuses instead on work, which works for about twenty-four hours, but on his customary walk the next evening he can't help but dwell on the previous evening. In place of his own actions, he thinks about the lust darkening the other man's eyes, the way he'd so clearly wanted it, too, but had stopped for some reason.

Two days later his regular financial check-up reveals a full refund from Executive Consulting and Services.

_Oh, you did not_, Arthur thinks, and picks up the phone.

He's in Merlin Emrys's flat the next night.

\----

Merlin flushes bright red when he answers the bell, a box of Indian takeout in one hand and the other useless on the door.

"What -- what are you doing here?"

Arthur lets himself in. He doesn't answer.

"You forgot these," he says, retrieves the repaired cuffs from his pocket and twirls them around one finger. He'd practiced that on the way, to make sure he could do it and not hit himself in the face with the swinging end.

Merlin's eyes fasten on them immediately, his whole face so frozen in a wonderful combination of sheepishness and embarrassment that it's hard to believe he's the same man who nearly made Arthur come in his pants last week.

And really, that hadn't been what he'd thought he was signing up for, but once it started, hell, who was he to protest if an attractive man with knotting skills wanted to tie him up and do stuff to him in a van?

But then Merlin had gone all weird on him. It had taken him a while to get past the whole abandoned-on-a-street-corner thing and start to figure out _why_, and he'd come to the conclusion that it was definitely not that Merlin wasn't interested, but most likely to the contrary.

And Arthur definitely isn't going to pass that up, even if he's making a leap in the supposition that could end in a very humiliating way.

It'll probably be worth it, he decides.

And the fact that Merlin's clearly shocked at his presence but totally isn't ordering him out or looking sublimely disinterested points to the conclusion that he. Was. Right.

Not that he ever really doubted it.

"Yes, well," Merlin says, but he can't seem to actually find something to say, so he just gapes as Arthur takes the container out of Merlin's hand and puts it on top of a table.

"Why are you here?" Merlin finally manages.

Arthur pauses, like he's actually in thought. "I got the refund," he says. "And then I called your boss and said I had something of yours and that it would be to the best interest of everyone involved if I returned it to you myself."

"Oh," Merlin says. "Arthur, I'm..." But he doesn't finish again.

Arthur arches his eyebrow. "Gaius seems to think you can take care of yourself -- which I suppose might be true, if you're some sort of handcuff-evading escape artist. Are you, or was that part of the act, too?"

"It wasn't an _act_!" Merlin protests. "Well, I mean -- I guess it _was_, but I wasn't really intending to... Well, _yes_, anyway. I am. I can."

"Interesting," Arthur says, tone deliberately intrigued. Merlin looks at him, blue eyes hot and intense like last week, and that decides it for him. He rushes forward, so Merlin steps reflexively back, almost into the closed door, and Arthur cinches the open link around the closest of Merlin's wrists, jamming the circle he'd rather stupidly left closed over the doorknob and squeezing until it's tight around the narrowest part, not even a circle at all any longer, just two arcs crossing into a nasty-looking slice.

Merlin glares at him, one arm awkward across his body because apparently Arthur's miscalculated and done it wrong. Oh well, if he can actually get out of them it won't be uncomfortable for long.

"Go on then," Arthur encourages. Merlin doesn't do it, just stands there looking rather like a dolt who's gotten himself in a very foolish pickle. Arthur smirks, though he's actually a little disappointed.

"I thought you could do this," he says, crowding in like he remembers Merlin doing, relishing the feel from the other side and the heat, once he can feel it, of Merlin's skinny body under his t-shirt.

"Arthur," Merlin says, eyes fastened to his lips, so he licks them deliberately and Merlin surprises him -- actually, genuinely shocks him -- by making a sudden, small noise, reaching out his free hand and yanking Arthur the rest of the short way in by the belt, kissing him with his mouth already open and hot.

Arthur moans back appreciatively, because he thought they'd have to go through a few rounds of unnecessary apologies before this, and even though it's a little weird with one of Merlin's arm useless between them, he leans forward until Merlin's pressed against the door and then slides one hand in Merlin's hair and the other up the back of his shirt, moaning again into Merlin's mouth at the feel of smooth skin under his hand and the way Merlin arches into his touch.

Merlin's lips are shiny-wet and darkened red when Arthur pulls back just enough to pull oxygen into his lungs, and his hand's migrated around, fingers tucked under the waistband of Arthur's trousers.

"Are you," he starts, but that's not exactly what he wants to say. "Do you want me to let you go?"

Merlin looks at him for a long moment, and Arthur's concerned for a moment but it's not like he's scared or debating being scared. He doesn't know what it is Merlin's thinking, or deciding, but soon he flexes his fingers against Arthur's ass and shakes his head.

"Oh," Arthur says, practically hearing the desperate twitch of his cock. "That's... Good." He decides the best way to keep himself from continuing to sound like an irredeemable idiot is more kissing.

He doesn't go for Merlin's lips, though, targeting instead his long pale throat, the shadowy angles under his jaw that flush red when he bites and Merlin's moans reverberate against his lips. He hikes Merlin's shirt and goes lower, tongue on a nipple and a little bit of teeth, the heaving prominent curves of Merlin's ribs and the dip of his belly. When he has to fall to his knees to continue, he draws his hands down Merlin's sides, too, until his fingers hook in Merlin's jeans, and then he moves forward, knees on the hardwood, until he can open his mouth around the hard shape of Merlin's cock, hot even through the cloth.

The restrained arm is rather in his way, so he pushes it up with one hand and Merlin holds it there awkwardly as Arthur tugs the denim down. Arthur can see how the chain is pulling constantly, and Merlin keeps trying to move his hand to Arthur's head, but it doesn't exactly fit.

He does it anyway when Arthur wraps two fingers around the base of Merlin's cock to hold it steady so he can slide his tongue under the head and around once before he takes the whole tip into his mouth, Merlin's fingers tight in his hair and the metal cool against his ear.

The one hand stays where it is as he works down slowly, pausing every so often to suck hard before he keeps going, until he feel how wet his lips are by the chill of the air and he can taste pre-come at the back of his tongue.

He moves the other back, down, pausing the scrape the back of all four fingernails along the curve if Merlin's balls and then run them lightly around Merlin's entrance. He hears Merlin's free hand slap hard against the door.

"Can I--" Arthur says. "Do you--"

"Top drawer, bedroom," Merlin replies.

When Arthur returns he's got his jeans and pants totally off, crumpled on the floor to the left of his feet, and Arthur realizes he's still even got his _shoes_ on. He kicks them off and strips off his shirt at once, but doesn't get to finish because Merlin does something complicated with his foot so that Arthur stumbles against him before he can even undo the button of his slacks, and he can feel Merlin's body hot all down his own, the friction of skin so different from clothes and his cock standing out below the hem. Merlin moans and angles his hips forward, tangling the trapped hand in his own shirt to keep it out of the way of his shallow thrusts. Arthur's hand close possessively over Merlin's arse, controlling the speed.

And he kind of just wants to watch, like this, let them push and give and take against each other until he actually does ruin his pants and Merlin's knuckles flash white in the dark cotton, pull against the metal ring, but Merlin's opening his trousers and he does something with the zipper so that the whole fly opens when Merlin yanks one side. They slip down on his hips and Merlin cups one hand over his erection, palm up and fingers sweeping over Arthur's balls. The condom and lube slip out of his pocket and hit the floor.

He doesn't exactly remember the negotiations that end with Merlin facing the door, head fallen back against Arthur's shoulder as he twists three fingers slick inside and runs his thumb around Merlin's sac, everything hot and slippery and glorious.

After he rolls the condom on he's trying to go slowly, to keep control, but Merlin doesn't let him, pushes down as soon as the tip is in so that Arthur chokes out a loud moan and has to stop moving altogether to prevent himself from coming immediately into the perfect friction, heat. Merlin won't stop, though, he keeps up the short, shallow thrusts, sounds Arthur could listen to forever.

"Oh, God, fucking slow down," Arthur pleads, too gone to bother modulating his desperate tone.

"Why?" Merlin challenges, but he does. "Do we have a one time limit?" Which of course leads Arthur to think about _not_ having a one time limit, about Merlin pale and lean in the shower, dark hair against white sheets and on his back on the floor, pushing Arthur's knees to his chest over a table, and all that nearly defeats the purpose of slowing down in the first place.

"Fucking hell, Merlin," he says, slaps his hand against Merlin's hip and holds him in place so Arthur can begin fucking him in earnest, long even strokes and holding his breath to keep it all in.

Merlin puts one hand on Arthur's flank, applies enough pressure against his thrust forward that it's clearly a stopping gesture, and he slows, worried.

"Just," Merlin says, "hold on." He holds Arthur in place but adjusts himself, standing on the toes of his left foot and lifting the other off the ground, bracing his knee against the door so his whole body in higher against Arthur's hips, a little angled, and the whole length of his right thigh is flush with Arthur's.

"Okay, go," he says.

Arthur does, and he can tell from the peak of the first thrust, when Merlin bites his lip and the muscles in his back go tight, that Merlin's done it on purpose, that he knew what he needed. He can't resist going faster, harder, and sneaking one hand around Merlin's body to grab his cock and feel the way it fills more with every push.

He's too close himself, so he deliberately slows his hips as he jacks Merlin quickly, until he can tell from the way Merlin's cries are pitched louder and his dick somehow even harder in Arthur's hand that he's about to come. Then he lets himself go, mouth open and gasping against the knobs of Merlin's spine and hand clenched in the long muscle of Merlin's left thigh to brace himself, almost wishing he could hold on, to memorize what Merlin sounds like when he comes.

Merlin does with one hand pulling Arthur's hair and the other flat on the door, supporting them, near his knee, which Arthur observes but doesn't actually think about. He's too busy with the sound of Merlin's moans in his ears and slick pressure tightening further around him, his hand messy with Merlin's come and Merlin's sweat salty against his tongue.

He sags forward, and Merlin's right leg gives out so they're half on the ground, Merlin panting with both hands against the floor. His left wrist is reddened, but unrestrained.

"Wait--" Arthur realizes, and looks to the left, where the cuffs are dangling empty from the doorknob.

"I told you," Merlin says, leaning back so that Arthur collapses to the ground, floorboards cold against his damp skin. Someone's clothes are under his arse.

"Could you have done that whenever you wanted?" he asks.

Merlin looks smug, sitting on the ground with one knee up.

"Maybe."


End file.
